


Tilt

by genteelrebel



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Angst, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, M/M, Sex, Slash, virgin!Duncan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 08:50:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3350669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genteelrebel/pseuds/genteelrebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Endgame, Duncan is having problems adjusting to Connor's death, feeling very rootless and unsure. But an unexpected visit from Methos proves that a little uncertainty may be a good thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tilt

**Author's Note:**

> For the purposes of this fanfic, Endgame happened; Connor’s death happened; Kate did not. Just erase her from the plot line of the film and you’ll be fine. :)
> 
> Feedback is very welcome!

Seacouver in early March was a study in contrasts. The city was still a mostly dank, mostly dark, mostly fog-covered wintry hell, but there were little pockets of paradise to be found. A protected corner of a park where the first crocus were beginning to unfurl. A moment when the sun broke through the nearly perpetual drizzle and the sight of sunshine on the raindrops was as fine a vision as any Immortal could ask for. Spring was definitely on its way. Little mom and pop restaurants were once again throwing their doors and windows wide so that the scent of their handmade soups and pizzas could fill the air, and teenagers were once again emerging from their winter of exile inside the malls to flirt and strut on street corners. The year was turning. Life was going on.

On the outside, at least. Inside Duncan MacLeod’s heart, the truth was exactly the opposite. He’d been in Seacouver for almost six months now, and while he’d done the expected—signed a lease for a new luxury apartment high above the city noise, joined a health club with fencing equipment so he could keep in shape, dropped by Joe’s Bar every Friday night for a scotch or three—he was really just going through the motions. He’d hoped that being in Seacouver again would help to ground him, give him the roots he’d been lacking ever since Connor’s death. But it was hard to feel comforted by the city’s familiarity when reminders of what he’d lost in the last ten years were everywhere, when practically every street held some memory that brought a flash of pain. Restaurants he and Tessa had dined in. Streets Duncan had actually let Richie drive the T-Bird down while he tried to determine whether or not the young man knew safe driving practices as well as fool proof hot wiring techniques. Movie theaters they’d all visited, parks that still held Tessa’s art…and it wasn’t just memories of Richie and Tessa that haunted the city like a ghost. Connor was here too, even though he’d only visited the once. For a long time Duncan steadfastly avoided driving any street that would take him within view of a certain river, knowing that if he did, he’d be swamped in recollections of the hours he’d spent patiently scouring the shore for Connor’s body after Slan had cheated in their encounter. And memories of rescuing Connor would lead to memories of a young teen trying desperately to stay out of sight while he watched from the bushes, thready Pre-Immortal buzz unknowingly giving him away as he was both drawn to and terrified by things he couldn't even begin to understand. And *that* would bring memories of Connor's soft Highland voice saying “You’ll have to keep an eye on the boy” and Duncan’s faithful promise that he would…

Duncan shuddered. Yes, it was best to avoid waterfront views.

The problem was, as the months went by, Duncan soon discovered he was avoiding most of *everything.* On bad days, the constant reminders of his lost ones conspired to drive him into a pit of madness, a pit he was sure he would never emerge from if he succumbed. So, he started protecting himself. The circle of his daily movements became more circumspect, more conscribed. He continued going to the club for his daily workouts, but soon that became all he did, as he gave up his daily run and even grocery shopping in an effort to avoid the ghosts. Why go to the store, why risk seeing the mothers and teenagers and old people all experiencing life, when it was so easy simply to have his meals delivered? He stopped visiting galleries and sports events for pleasure, turned down all invitations from the attractive women and the occasional determined man who managed to catch his eye. He did keep going to Joe’s—the way the mortal bartender was aging, Duncan felt that their weekly contact was a tie he couldn’t break—but the three scotches became two, then one, then a mineral water quickly gulped during a ten minute visit Duncan never quite managed to take off his coat for. Joe took to staring at him worriedly with those too-wise mortal eyes, and several times Duncan had to come up with some excuse and leave before Joe could suggest they find someplace quiet to talk. Whatever that well-trained Watcher of Immortals was witnessing in his behavior now, Duncan didn’t want to know. Sometimes it was a true pain in the ass having a Watcher as your only local friend.

One morning in early May, Duncan woke up with the dangerous thought that perhaps he didn’t have to go the gym after all. He could simply rent the apartment on the floor below his, install some mats and punching bags and a steam room, and have all the facilities of his club at hand without any of the inconvenience. Although, now that he came to think of it, why bother with a daily workout at all? He hadn’t met another Immortal in months. And since his apartment building came with state of the art security, he was as safe here as it was possible for an Immortal to be. He could let his training slip, pay someone else to keep the Challengers away…

Duncan caught himself, dressed quickly, and went to the club where he forced himself through an extra-hard workout, putting himself through literally hours of panting, muscle-tearing strain. Such thoughts were the beginning of a suicidal slide that would leave him kneeling defeated on the pavement, somewhere, with a blade about to severe his neck. And as much as he might be going through the motions of living without actually living right now, he wasn’t so far gone as to actually desire his own death.

Not yet, at least.

***

Saturday evening. Mid June. The intercom by the door had been buzzing for almost fifteen minutes now, trying to tell Duncan that there was someone in the lobby who wanted to see him. Duncan had been ignoring it just as long. There was, quite simply, nobody he wanted to see. Well, that wasn’t exactly true: there was a very short list of people he wanted to see, and all of them would have called first if it was urgent. The fact that the phone had rung off and on for nearly an hour before the buzzer started buzzing didn’t deter him in this judgment; Duncan had dutifully checked the caller ID each time the phone sounded, only to discover that his pesterer was an “Anonymous caller” with a phone number Duncan didn’t recognize, so it couldn’t be Amanda or Joe. Everything--and everyone-- else in the world paled in importance compared to the TV show he'd Tivo’d on Monday and now was sitting down to watch, the latest celebrity-paired-with-a-ballroom-dance-professional pseudo-contest to hit the airways. Nothing in Duncan’s current universe was quite so therapeutic as watching the teen idols of decades gone by attempting to keep from tripping over their be-feathered partners’ stiletto heels. He was just wondering what the judges would say about the latest contestant’s misguided attempt at flamenco footwork when the intercom finally stopped buzzing. And Duncan heard the unmistakable sounds of his private elevator starting up. 

A few moments after that, an entirely different kind of Buzz fill his senses. Immortal. So much for paying other people to protect him, then. Katana in hand, Duncan went to his computer and called up the images from the security camera in the ceiling of the elevator—Sunset Towers’ security team was thorough, if ultimately inadequate—and realized, with a sinking heart, that such cameras were only useful if you were very good at identifying people from a bird’s eye view. He could make out a scrap of wide-brimmed hat, and a portion of coat-clad sleeve ending in a gloved hand. Well, at least the Immortal in the elevator didn’t appear to be standing with his or her sword drawn, but Duncan knew from experience that the coat was exactly the kind of garment that could hide several blades. He sighed, and as he made his way to the elevator doors he found himself for the first time looking around his apartment the way a warrior would, calculating which pieces of furniture could be ducked behind in a pinch, which object de art could be thrown as impromptu weapons. *And just when my insurance premiums were starting to go down again, too,* he thought, ruefully eyeing the big-screen television and the glass-shelved entertainment center which would never survive a Quickening at such close quarters. Damn. He’d been getting very fond of that satellite radio…

The elevator chimed. The doors slid open. Duncan took a breath and raised his sword. And heard a voice from the past, faintly melodic and eternally amused, say cheerfully: “Well, well. It’s good to see you too, Highlander. Do you always greet long-lost friends with such enthusiasm?”

Duncan ’s hand went numb. The katana clattered forgotten to the floor. “Methos?”

***

Time froze. Duncan stopped breathing, his heart stopped beating, the clock on the foyer table even stopped ticking as his eyes tried to process what his ears already knew. Methos. The same voice, the same eyes, the same relaxed way of standing that was the vertical equivalent of the Immortal’s famous sprawl…but looking impossibly *better* than the Methos Duncan had last seen. Stronger, somehow. Indefinably better fed. *Tan*, for god’s sake—oh, he hadn’t turned into a Latin dancer or a bodybuilder, but there was a subtle glow on his cheeks that said the old Immortal had finally traded dusty Watcher research rooms for sunshine and fresh air. Methos's hands, when he tugged off the expensive leather gloves, were professionally manicured, his hair was styled in a sophisticated and flattering cut…and beneath the camel-colored cashmere coat Duncan could actually see a suit, impeccably tailored to flatter the lanky frame. “Methos?” he said again, much more doubtfully.

The old Immortal nodded subtly, just once, just as he had when they’d first met, long ago in a city far away. Their eyes met and held, causing another one of those stop time moments—a moment when they both wordlessly acknowledged everything they’d been through together and everything the other had meant, every moment of friendship and affection, every moment of misunderstanding and disappointment as well. It ended with Duncan stepping forward and, completely un-selfconsciously, sweeping Methos into a hug. He dropped his head to the strong stable shoulder and held on tightly, marveling at the softness of the new cashmere coat, the air of wealth and well-being the Eldest exuded. “Almost didn’t recognize you,” Duncan said. “Where the hell is your ratty old trench coat? I figured you’d be wearing that thing until we were all wearing laser swords and body armor. Or else civilization collapsed altogether and we went back to wearing animal skins.”

Duncan felt the quiet chuckle before he heard it, softly rumbling in the Old One’s chest. It was easily the best thing Duncan had felt in months. “Times change, MacLeod,” Methos answered. “Even for me. I’m moving in a rarified financial circle these days, I’m afraid. Have to have the camouflage necessary to fool the natives into thinking I’m one of their own.”

“You always were good at that,” Duncan agreed, doubling his grip. Methos made a soft “oof” sound, but Duncan didn’t care. It was simply so damn good to see him. Besides, if he cracked a rib, Methos would heal. “Where’s your duffle bag? In the elevator?”

“Ah, no,” Methos answered. “I’m afraid my trusty duffle has been given an honorable retirement, too. These days my hall closet is filled to the brim with terribly pretentious matching luggage. But all I have with me now is an overnight bag. I can’t stay for long.” Methos gently detangled himself from Duncan's arms and pulled back. His lips were curved into an affectionate smile, but his eyes were serious. “I’m really just checking up on you for a friend, you see.”

And the moment of joy collapsed onto itself. Duncan felt the pain come back with startling force; his shoulders sagged and his smile became very brittle. “Joe,” he said.

“Joe,” Methos agreed. “He’s worried about you, Highlander.”

“He doesn’t…” Duncan mentally formulated about a dozen finales for that sentence, from the simple, and completely untrue, “He doesn’t need to be” to a full out sarcastic assault on Joe’s character that would have done credit to the Methos of the days of yore. Instead, Duncan closed his mouth, thought for a moment, and nodded heavily. “I think I’m worried, too,” he admitted, and felt something, some part of his carefully constructed scaffolding of protection, crumble with the admission. “But I don’t know what to do to help myself.”

Methos nodded as if this was the most natural, normal thing in the world, a reaction that filled Duncan with inexpressible relief. It would have been horrible to have Methos hold him to his old standards, expect him to still be the Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod he'd been in Paris. Then again, when had Methos ever expected him to be anything other than exactly what he was? The old Immortal removed his hat and coat, setting them carefully on the coat tree that stood by the elevator doors. “Make me something to eat, Highlander,” he said. “Then you and I are going on a little trip.”

“By plane, train, or automobile?”

“A pair of good walking shoes will do.”

“That sounds…” Duncan rolled around several words in his head, rejected “nice” for being too bland, “ominous” for being too truthful. He settled for “…interesting. Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

“Of course not. Where would the fun be in that?” Methos smiled at Duncan’s expression. “It’s somewhere you need to go, and also a place you would never go on your own. That’s all you need to know for now.”

“I see.”

“No. You don’t.” Methos placed a hand on Duncan's shoulder, giving him a gentle push towards his kitchen. “But for the moment it’s better that I don’t illuminate you. Food first, Highlander. It’s been a long day, and I never perform acts of Immortal salvation on an empty stomach if I can avoid it.”

Duncan frowned. “Is that what it is? An act of salvation?” Methos merely smiled cryptically, as if to say that was up to Duncan. Duncan’s frown became a full-fledged scowl. “I though you gave up being merciful a long time ago.”

“Who said I was being merciful?” Methos said lightly, and sauntered through the archway into Duncan’s living room. He started examining Duncan’s décor, picking up a piece of 10th century Peruvian art here, a chess piece from the dusty marble set on the end table here, taking over the space as effortlessly as he always had. Duncan shook his head—some things never change-- and went into the kitchen to fix the Old One something to eat.

***

“Food” turned out to be a hastily microwaved TV dinner served on a paper plate, rather than the expertly prepared three-course meal Duncan would once have taken great pride in serving. It had taken a remarkably short amount of time opening and closing cupboards for Duncan to realize he was without so much as a single clean plate, let alone a fresh vegetable. God, he really had let things go, hadn’t he? The state of his kitchen proved he was in worse shape than he’d thought. 

Methos accepted the plate and peeled back the cellophane with the same equanimity with which he accepted much else about the apartment, including the clutter of tabloids scattered on the couch and the frozen Tivo’d image of a former beauty queen in mid-dip that Duncan had left up on the flat screen TV. As the Eldest settled his neatly suited form into Duncan’s couch and placed a thousand dollar pair of designer boots on Duncan’s coffee table, Duncan was suddenly very conscious of the fact that he was wearing a pair of fifteen-year old grey sweats and a T-shirt with a hole where the ribbing had come away from the neckline. It was a new experience, feeling grubby in front of Methos, and Duncan kept having to resist the urge to get up and change into something better, or at least to grab a feather duster and clean off some of the dust he was now painfully aware was clinging to nearly every surface. Methos ate steadily, chattering away about inconsequential things like the quality of the service on his flight from Paris and the ever-present Seacouver drizzle, and only when the last bit of mashed potato had been chased into a corner and consumed did he return to the matter at hand. “Right,” he said, carefully placing the container on the coffee table and getting to his feet. “Phase one has been accomplished—my stomach is pleasantly full, thank you. Now it’s time to move onto phase two.” He looked Duncan over critically. “You might want to change into something warmer.”

“Yes,” Duncan said and ducked into his bedroom, grateful to have an excuse to leave the grubby sweats behind. He spent longer than he should have, rifling through his wardrobe looking for something suitable—something warmer, something warmer, all right, warmer he could do. He grabbed a wool sweater and a pair of jeans…frowned when the jeans, instead of clinging tightly to his hips as he remembered, now hung rather loosely instead. Had he lost weight without noticing? There was no time to worry about it now. Duncan buttoned up the fly, ran a quick comb through his hair, and scrutinized his footwear collection. “You said I’d need a good pair of walking shoes?” he called into the living room.

“Whatever you normally wear to run in will do,” Methos called back. “Or hiking boots, if you have them. The ground is likely to be quite damp.”

*Damp ground?* Duncan thought curiously, but he knew better than to ask. Methos in Mystery Mode was harder to pry information out of than the Sphinx. He jammed his feet into a pair of boots, nowhere near as expensive as Methos’s but they would serve, tied the laces, and walked back into the living room. He hesitated as he passed the hall closet. “Will I need a coat?”

“Unquestionably,” Methos answered. “Sword too.”

“Sword…” Duncan’s hand paused in mid reach. *"Act of salvation." "Who said I was being merciful?"* “You’re not planning on Challenging me, are you?”

“And risk getting blood on these clothes? Don’t be silly,” Methos answered. He gave Duncan a slow, predatory smile. “Besides, Joe would never forgive me if I killed you. And it’s always nice to have at least one bar in every country where the owner never asks me to pay my tab.”

“You’re so sure you’d win?”

“5,000 years, MacLeod. Don’t make the mistake of thinking you’ve seen every trick up my sleeve.” The rather unsettling grin disappeared, replaced by a look of intense weariness. “But as a matter of fact, I’m not the Immortal you will need protecting from. This is Seacouver, after all. A Seacouver that has Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod in residence, famed in song and story for attracting exactly the wrong sort of attention. It’s dark, we’ll be on a foot…if we manage to get two blocks without getting Challenged, I’ll be pleasantly surprised. I want you to be prepared, just in case. Besides.” The ancient hazel eyes settled on Duncan’s shoulders, swept down the line of his arms, and back up again. “Joe’s been quite worried about your state of mind lately. He was under the impression that you might have stopped carrying your sword.”

“I haven’t…” Duncan started, and stopped, remembering the mornings when it would have been so easy to stay in bed and skip training for a day or week, the times that it was force of habit alone that made him slide the katana into his coat before he went out the door. “I haven’t stopped carrying it,” Duncan finished quietly. “But I’ll admit that I’ve thought about it once or twice.”

Methos’s eyes were compassionate. “Then I’ve gotten here just in time.” He grabbed his own coat back off the rack and donned the garment with a flamboyant swirl. “On, Watson! The city awaits.”

“You’ve decided you’re Sherlock Holmes now?” Methos merely smirked. Duncan shook his head. “Are you ever going to tell me where we’re going?”

“To the playground, Watson. To the playground.”

*Right*, thought the Highlander. *Ask a silly question…* He double checked the placement of his katana in his coat and followed the other Immortal into the elevator.

***

Methos’s opinion of his status as The World's Greatest Immortal Challenge Magnet not withstanding, Duncan MacLeod *was* capable of walking down a street—even a dark, lonely, Seacouver city street—without encountering a Challenge. Methos walked calmly but surely, even breaking out into a cheerful whistle now and then, which un-nerved Duncan totally—especially since Methos seemed to know the streets around Duncan’s new apartment building better than Duncan did, taking shortcut after shortcut until Duncan was hopelessly lost. They ended up in a little anachronistic pocket of residential housing—tree lined streets and old fashioned one-family houses that, once upon a time, had probably been a wealthy suburban neighborhood before the city swallowed it up. Methos turned left—the street slanted downward—and suddenly they were in a small park, probably unknown to everyone accept the neighborhood’s immediate residents. Duncan’s eyes had grown adjusted to the darkness, and he groaned when he saw what was silhouetted against the night sky. “A children’s playground,” he said. “You were serious?”

“Never more so,” Methos answered brightly. He seemed to be getting more cheerful by the minute. Duncan half expected him to start skipping. “Don’t look so disappointed, Highlander. This is a *special* playground.”

“Why is it special?”

“You’ll see. It’s better that you discover it for yourself.”

They began crossing the park’s broad lawn toward the looming playground equipment, which, to Duncan’s eyes, now took on a slightly ominous look. Especially since Methos had been right about the damp. The grass sucked wetly at Duncan’s boots as he walked. “How did you find this place, anyway?” Duncan asked, more to fill up the silence than anything. “I never even knew it was here.”

“Oh, I’m something of a connoisseur when it comes to public playground equipment,” Methos said. “But I found this place with Joe. I try to fly in to visit once a month or so, and we do a lot of walking when I do. One of the local fitness trails runs through here.”

“Walking? With *Joe*?”

“Slow but steady. It gives us a chance to talk.” Methos answered. He caught Duncan's expression of surprise and shrugged. “A man can’t spend *all* his time cooped up in a bar, after all. Nice as having 24 hour access to tasty alcohol may seem.”

“I see.” And Duncan did, even if part of him was a little startled. He’d always know that Methos and Joe had a deep friendship they kept mostly under wraps, hidden from prying Watcher eyes and consequently also from him. Duncan just hadn’t realized that Methos would value that friendship so much that he’d fly all the way from London once a month just so the two of them could…what? Walk and talk and discover hidden parks? *Be friends,* Duncan thought. *Who else in the world can Joe walk with, who will neither ignore nor coddle his disabilities? Not me—I’d get impatient, or suggest we do something else. And who else can Methos talk to, who will put up with both his outlandish stories and the rare times he tells the truth? Not me—once again, I’d get impatient with the stories, and the truth…well, we’ve all seen how well I do with that. Yes, I can see what they see in each other. A plane ticket once a month is a small price to pay for that kind of walking.* “Once a month,” he mused aloud. “So you can’t break that bond, either.”

A quick flashing of a smile. “No. Joe’s…special. Too special not to make an effort for.”

“Yes,” Duncan agreed, thinking about his own weekly ritual of the Friday night drink. Too special not to make an effort for, even when the rest of your existence was crumbling. They had reached the perimeter of the abandoned playground; Methos suddenly jumped onto the ground-level edge of a teeter-totter and, arms spread like a tight rope walker’s, walked his way up to the middle. He stopped when he passed the fulcrum and allowed his weight to tip him to the ground, jumping off just before it hit with an expression of absolute glee. “Methos,” Duncan said, in a growly sort of warning voice. “If you brought me here in some kind of misguided attempt to get me in touch with my inner child…”

“Actually, it’s your inner adult I’m trying to reach,” Methos said. He walked over to the centerpiece of the playground: a huge, vaguely castle-shaped structure filled with slides and ladders and monkey bars. Methos grabbed a fireman’s pole in both hands and let himself dangle from it, coat fanning awkwardly as he twisted. “When was the first time you played on a swing, MacLeod?”

“Methos…”

“Indulge an old Immortal, MacLeod. I’m not about to start psychoanalyzing your early relationships with your parents. I just want to know about your history with swings. When was the first time you played on one? In the Highlands?”

“I…” Against his will, Duncan smiled. It was a happy memory. “Yes. It was in the Highlands, when I was just a lad. My cousin Robert hung up an old rope in a tree by the river.” Duncan started to chuckle. “It wasn’t a great feat of engineering. Just the rope tossed around the limb with a knot at the base for your feet and another knot higher up for your hands. But Robert would give me a push and I’d swing out over the water…”

“Do you remember how it felt?”

“Oh, yes.” If Duncan closed his eyes, he could be back there in a moment. Could feel the warmth of the sunshine and see the light glinting off the water, could see Robert’s smile and feel again the absolute security of knowing that if he fell into the river Robert would fish him out, and after the requisite scolding from their mothers for ruining their clothes there would be a warm meal and a bed and unconditional love to go home to. “Yes. Yes, I remember.”

Methos sounded very sad. “No, Highlander, I don’t think you do.” Duncan was about to argue the point—after all, it was his memory, how would Methos know if it was accurate it or not? But the Eldest let go of his fireman's pole and took Duncan's hand, leading him around the mass of modern playground equipment exactly the same way Robert might once have led him through a twisting path at the outskirts of Donovan Woods. It was such a child-like gesture of solidarity, you-and-me-against-the-world, that Duncan curled his fingers tightly around the ancient palm, torn between the unfamiliar sensation of holding hands with a grown man and a sudden, irrational fear of what he’d find at the end of the trail. However, Methos merely led him to the far edge of the playground, where there stood an older, simpler piece of equipment, a pair of swings that predated the rest of the park’s play area by decades. “This is what I brought you here for,” Methos said.

Duncan looked. There were two swings suspended in the simple metal frame, both dangling from sturdy lengths of metal chain. One was a baby swing, equipped with tiny leg holes and a seatbelt designed to keep a small toddler from falling out. The other was a generic length of rubber, wide enough to fit just about anyone from early school age to adult. Duncan raised his eyebrows at the baby swing. “I hope you’re not expecting me to fit into that,” he said.

Methos shook his head gravely. “Of course not. *This* is what I wanted you to see.” He walked to the non-baby swing, touched its links with surprising reverence, then looked back over his shoulder to MacLeod. “Do you see what’s special about it?”

“No.”

“Watson, I despair,” Methos said. “Do you see how short the chains are? Do you see how deep the pit below is?” MacLeod frowned; he hadn’t realized it until that very moment, but there was indeed quite a hollow scooped out of the earth below the swing. Methos jumped into the hollow with a theatrical little hop, his legs disappearing up to his knees. “Ta-da. Those two things make this swing the superior to almost every other public swing in either North America or Europe. For a while there was a similar one near my flat in London, but some do-gooder or other filled in the hollow with gravel so the kiddies could climb on and off. A great pity.” Methos jumped up and settled himself in the rubber seat, then rolled his eyes at the Highlander’s baffled face. “For god’s sake, MacLeod! Don’t you see it? *My feet don’t touch the ground.*”

It was true. Duncan had to step closer to be sure, but Methos was right. The long, lanky Immortal legs did indeed dangle above the ground, one booted toe hanging several inches away from the earth. “This is what you brought me here for,” Duncan repeated dully.

“Yes!”

“You keep a mental map of public swings in both Europe and the US where your feet don’t touch the ground.”

“And Canada. Yes.”

“And you were with Joe when you discovered this one?” A vehement nod. “What on earth did he say?”

“He just rolled his eyes and gave me a push. Oh, don’t look like that, MacLeod,” Methos said. “Joe’s become very tolerant of my little eccentricities over the last few years.” Duncan simply took a step back, shaking his head. Methos pushed his way out of the swing, landing on the damp grass with a little plopping sound. “All right,” he said, standing aside and giving the swing a little pat. “I can see I’m going to have to resort to stronger measures to convince you. Hop in.”

“You’re insane.”

“No. Merely much too old and wise to be bound by any one culture’s ideas of what constitutes grown-up behavior.” Duncan gave a disbelieving snort, and Methos rolled his eyes star-ward. “For heaven’s sake, MacLeod! For once in your long stuffy life, will you just forget about your precious Highland Chieftain’s honor and do something impulsive? Get. In. The. Swing.”

Not really able to believe he was doing this…but what the hell, it was after dark, the park was abandoned, and if Methos ever told anyone Duncan could always claim he was drunk…Duncan stalked to the swing and gripped the chains. He did have to admit that Methos had a point on at least one front. It was odd, very odd, to have to jump up to reach the swing. The ones he’d sat in on his rare trips to the playground with Dr. Anne’s baby Mary had always been so low to the ground he could practically touch the earth with his knees. But here and now it actually took Duncan two or three tries to jump high enough, and then he had to wriggle like a toddler to get himself seated, the rubber seat curling snugly around his hips. Then he simply sat there like an idiot. He couldn’t reach the earth with so much as a toe to push himself off, and the swing’s metal frame was beyond his arms’ reach. “Methos?”

The old Immortal was standing patiently at the base of the swing’s frame. “I’m here, Highlander.”

“I—“ This was ridiculous. He was a grown man, for god’s sake, not a child. He shouldn’t be dangling here, looking ridiculous, not knowing what to do next. All he had to do was jump down and he’d be back in control, honor and persona fully intact. 

But…Methos wanted to show him something. And maybe, just maybe, Duncan was starting to get an inkling of what that something was. “I don’t know what to do,” he confessed.

Part of Duncan expected to hear a sardonic chuckle. There was none. Instead Methos came close, bent down so Duncan could feel his breath against his ear. “I’ll give you a push, Highlander,” Methos said. “The rest is up to you.” He grabbed the chains right above Duncan’s hands, planted his feet, and pulled backward with strong, sure arms. There was a long, horrible moment during which Duncan felt his body tilt and slant away from the earth, a moment of total surrender, total loss of control. Then Methos let go, and Duncan went soaring forward, his body skimming effortlessly over the earth. 

Duncan let out a shocked exclamation at the pleasure of the sensation, the freedom, the joy of rising in the air like a bird. Then there was a moment of horrendous disorientation as the swing reached its apex and started falling backward into the shadows—but Duncan embraced it, survived it, and started swinging forward again, not caring now that there was nothing solid under his feet to reassure him. He just relished the sensation of the flight. Methos smiled and moved safely out of the way, watching as centuries-old skills came back and the Highlander started moving his body within the swing to gain more height and speed, bending his knees to gather momentum on the fallback, lying almost flat to minimize wind resistance as he soared forward. Methos walked out to the grass and sat down, smiling at the occasional whoop of joy that came from the swing.

Duncan swung, and kept his toes pointed at the skies.

***

Duncan didn’t know how long he spent there, swinging back to see houses and streets and city lights, swinging up to see the stars and a pale Seacouver moon peaking out from behind the clouds. He did know that, by the time his legs were tired and his abdominal muscles were protesting at the unaccustomed movement—what a workout!—his cheeks had turned very pink from the cold night air. He slowed down reluctantly, knowing that the blissful time had to come to an end eventually, and jumped off the swing at the height of its forward movement. He felt dizzy for several moments after he landed, the earth twirling around him before he got his bearings. Then he went to search out Methos. 

The old Immortal had spread the cashmere coat over the park’s damp grass and was sprawled out on top of it, apparently perfectly content simply to lie on the ground and look up at the stars. “You’re going to have to spend a fortune at the dry cleaner's taking the stains out of that,” Duncan said. “Unless you think Seacouver grass stains are destined to become all the rage in London next season.”

“I’ll buy a new one. Some things are worth making an effort for,” Methos answered lazily, and Duncan wondered what was worth the effort…having the clothes that allowed him to blend in with his new circle in London? Or the simple joy of lying out in a wet Seacouver June, looking up at the stars? “Pull up a patch of lawn,” Methos invited, and Duncan did, grateful that his own coat was made of more durable stuff. He arranged it carefully on the grass a few feet away from Methos, katana sleeve open and accessible on one side, the top bunched up to provide a pillow for his head. “I take it you had a good time, then,” Methos said.

“It was…” Duncan lay down, trying to find words. “You were right, you know. It really is different. When your feet can’t touch the ground.”

“’How do you like to go up in a swing, up in the air so blue? Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing ever a child can do,’” Methos quoted Robert Louis Stevenson, and heaved a contended sigh. “And not just a child, either. It’s a pity nobody builds playgrounds on an adult scale. I’d love to hang from a set of monkey bars high enough that I could actually fall off them. Or slide down a slide so tall it makes me dizzy to stand on the top.”

“Yes. Dizzy,” Duncan said thoughtfully. “Methos?”

“What is it, Highlander?”

“On the swing…there was moment…” Duncan paused, trying to find the right words to explain. “I got dizzy, every time I started moving back in the dark. It felt like the world was…tilted, somehow. Not stable. Like I’d feel on a rollercoaster, except I wasn’t expecting to get that disoriented from just a swing. I couldn’t touch the ground to reassure myself, and it was dark, and…” He stopped, gave a self-conscious little laugh. “Am I nuts? Or just out of practice at playing on swings?”

“You’re out of practice, yes. But not at swings. That’s why I brought you here, really.” Methos raised his hands, gesturing up at the sky. “Have you watched any children lately, MacLeod? Really watched them play? They’re always doing things to take them out of their comfort zones…riding on carousels, swinging on swings, hanging upside down from monkey bars. Even just spinning around in circles until they fall over if there’s no other equipment handy. That dizzy feeling you mentioned, that feeling that the whole world has tilted? Kids actively seek it out. It’s fun for them. But adults...” Methos shrugged. “Adults have to be prodded into it. We’re stubborn about it, don’t like having our equilibrium disturbed. But once it has been…well, if we’re flexible enough, we can enjoy the ride. You started having fun on the swing, didn't you? Started enjoying the sensation of being tilted?”

“Yes, but…” Duncan shook his head, completely puzzled. He knew Methos was trying to make a point here, sketching out some kind of grand and generous metaphor, but he was missing it utterly. “Why bring me here now?”

“Because you’re a man who has lost his foundations,” Methos said bluntly. “For god’s sake, MacLeod. We all know it, all of us who love you. Amanda knows it, Joe knows it, I know it. Probably every single Watcher who has ever bothered to open your file knows it, too. Richie’s death started it. Then Connor finished the job when he forced you to kill the last thing that connected you to your past, the one thing in your world that had been unchanging ever since he first found you on that battlefield. You’ve got no idea who you are, without him. Nothing left to hold on to.” Methos’s voice softened. “I just wanted to remind you that the feeling of being rootless—the feeling of having the world tilt—doesn’t have to be run from. It can be embraced. Even relished, if you have the courage.”

Duncan was silent. Methos was right about him having lost his foundations. Ever since Connor had died, he’d felt like there was no such thing as solid ground—it really was a feeling analogous to swinging backwards into the dark. And he’d been running away from that feeling all this time. Ceasing all motion, in a desperate attempt to avoid feeling that motion was all there was… “The world is going to tilt a lot on you in your life to come, Highlander,” Methos said softly. “Every time the human race makes a grand leap forward or takes a big step back, and every time you lose someone you care for. It will tilt again in a decade or two, when Joe finally succumbs to his mortality and leaves us. It will tilt again a few decades after that, when the United States finally Balkanizes or China decides to invade. It will tilt so much that you’ll think you’ve fallen off for good when the century comes that you realize you’re the only one alive who remembers the sound of your mother tongue, and the little town of Glenfinnan has been under water for a hundred years, or else has turned into a desert. You’re just going to have to get used to the feeling. More than that: you’re going to have to start actively seeking it out, embracing it for the pleasure and freedom it gives. Or you’ll never survive to see your first millennia.”

Duncan shivered. There was curious finality to the Eldest’s last words, a tinge of prophecy Duncan didn’t know how to take. There was truth there, he knew there was truth, but his mind and emotions were so battered that he couldn’t quite make himself process it all at once. Instead he grabbed onto something else entirely, something that surprised him as much as it comforted. “Methos? Does it really matter to you if you if I live to see my first millennia?”

Methos shifted thoughtfully on his coat. “You know,” he said slowly, as if just discovering the fact for himself, “I rather think it does.” 

And they were both quiet for a long time, simply breathing in the dark.

***

There is a natural limit to the amount of time even Immortal bones can spend lying on the cool earth before getting chilled, no matter how amazing the constellation of stars spread out overhead. Eventually Methos picked himself off the ground, extending a hand to help Duncan rise, too. Duncan took it, and acquiesced to Methos’s gentle suggestion that they stroll around the circumference of the park a few times before heading home. Apart from the damp, it was a lovely night, and somehow Duncan didn’t want to go back to his apartment just yet. He didn’t want to suggest going someplace else, either, to a restaurant or a late-night movie. If he was truthful about it, Duncan really didn’t want to be anywhere but there: there, in the soothing darkness, at the side of this baffling, enigmatic, often terrifyingly ruthless, but always amazingly empathic human being. It seemed completely natural to fall into a walk at Methos’s side, picking up the rhythm of both his footsteps and his breath, the darkness only broken by the occasional sparsely placed streetlamp and the silence broken by nothing at all. At least that’s how it was until Duncan, under the faint illumination of one of those streetlamps, turned to see the light catch the planes and angles of Methos’s face, and a question rose up in his mind. It wasn’t the first time the question had occurred to him, and he hesitated about asking it now. But, as god knew and Methos had pointed out, his world had already turned upside down anyway. What more did he have to lose? The second they were out of the streetlamp’s reach and their bodies were once again shrouded in shadows, Duncan opened his mouth. “Methos?”

“Yes, Duncan?”

“Why aren’t we lovers?”

He had at last, after years of unsuccessful attempts, succeeded in surprising the Eldest. In the darkness, it was very difficult to make out Methos’s expression, but Duncan was reasonably sure he saw an eyebrow arch sky high. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Why aren’t we lovers?” Nothing but silence came from Methos's direction. Duncan let a few more footsteps go by, then continued: “Everyone else certainly seems to think we are. Or have been. Or should be.”

More perplexity from the old Immortal. “And just who is this ‘everyone’ of whom you speak?”

“You know. Everyone.” Methos waited. “Amanda,” Duncan amended. “Joe. Even Richie, before he died.”

“Oh. I see.” Methos sounded amused. “Well…Amanda simply gets turned on by the thought of you being with a man; I wouldn’t take her overactive hormones too seriously, if I were you. Joe…Joe’s just sick of watching you get your heart broken when you lose people, and he figures I’m your best chance of getting a lover who will outlive you. Unparalleled track record at survival, and all that. And Richie…” A sigh. “Richie just plain didn’t want to share his beloved teacher with an outsider, that’s all. In his mind, the only reason you’d consistently let an arrogant old curmudgeon like me take over your life for weeks on end would be if I was giving you 'benefits', as the young people say. I don’t think any of them really ever saw it happening, if you asked them honestly. Besides.” The amused tone crept back. “Three people hardly constitutes ‘everyone’, Mac. You may need to revisit some basic mathematics and study the current world population projections if you think it is.”

*Ah, but Methos,* Duncan thought sadly. *Three people pretty much sums up ‘everyone’ in my world. With Richie and Connor gone, Doctor Anne remarried, who else do I really have? Three people. Amanda and Joe…and you, you old bastard. Always you.* “There is one more person who wonders,” he said aloud.

“Who?”

“Me.” 

There was a long, long silence. “You’ve gotten very quiet,” Duncan observed as they approached another lamppost.

“I know. I was just…thinking. Wondering.” Methos gave a small, unhappy shrug. “Duncan, ‘Methos, why aren’t we lovers?’ is a question that could mean many things. It could be an honest request for information. Or it could be code for “Methos, why don’t you grab me and tumble me to the ground right here, you sexy thing you.’” Startled, Duncan let out a short bark of laughter, amused by the broad Californian twang Methos gave the last words. Methos stopped walking, turned to look him in the eyes. “Or it could be any of a thousand things in between. So my question for you is this: what’s going on in that head of yours? Do you really want an answer to your question?”

“Do you *have* an answer?”

“More than one, I’m afraid.”

“Oh.” Duncan felt oddly disappointed. “Good answers?”

“I think so.”

“I see.” Duncan took a deep breath, disappointment curling in his stomach…and then his lips curved upward into a slow smile. “Wait a minute,” he said. “If you have good answers, several of them, that must mean this isn’t the first time the question has occurred to you.”

Methos grinned at him openly. Duncan was glad that they were close enough to the lamppost for him to clearly see the other man’s eyes; at that moment, they were filled with a rare sparkle. “Well spotted, Highlander,” Methos said, and Duncan knew he was resisting the urge to laugh aloud. “I have thought about it before. Many times, if you must know.”

“Starting when?”

“Oh, now, that’s a pretty coy question,” Methos said. “I don’t think I should answer that one before you do. When did it first occur to you, Highlander? Was tonight the first time? Was it my incredible knowledge of Seacouver playground equipment that finally swept you off your feet?”

“No. No, it wasn’t." Duncan answered. "Tonight’s not the first time I’ve thought about it, not by a long shot." Methos looked surprised and gestured for Duncan to go on. Duncan shifted uncomfortably. "I’m not sure when the first time was, to tell you the truth. Maybe it was the first time I saw Joe raise his eyebrows when I said I was taking you out to dinner. Or the first time Amanda wanted to know if she should call ahead before showing up when you were in town...”

Methos frowned. “You never thought about all on your own, then?” Duncan was silent, and after a moment Methos sighed and starting walking again. Duncan hurried to catch up. “That, then, is one of your answers,” Methos said when he had.

“And the other answers?”

“You're sure you want to know?” Duncan nodded softly. Methos raised a hand and started counting off on his fingers. “All right, then. For starters, there’s the fact that we don’t like the same kinds of music…”

"Hold it. That’s a reason? A *good* reason?”

“It is to me,” Methos nodded. “I like music, MacLeod. I like to go to concerts and listen to my iPod in the rain and turn the radio up loud and sing with it off-key. Most of all, I like to discover new songs I’m passionate about and share them with my lovers, watch them discover them and get passionate about them too. And unless I suddenly decide to trade in my entire pop collection for the opera greats, that’s never going to happen with you.” He counted off another finger. “Our musical incompatibility is almost as important as the fact that you are an incurable heterosexual.”

Duncan felt quite irrationally offended. “And just what makes you so sure of that?”

“Dun-can.” Mild exasperation from the old Immortal. “I’ve read your Chronicle. I’ve noted the great number of ladies…always ladies…who have graced your bed. Besides.” Methos's lip twisted wryly. “You weren’t the only one who was talking to Amanda, you know."

"No?"

"No. She kept insisting that you were interested. I kept arguing that you weren’t, so we made a little bet. The result of which involved me spending a few days parading around your loft wearing as little as possible, sometimes in boxers, sometimes leaving the shower dressed in nothing but a very skimpy towel…”

“Oh my god.” Duncan groaned. “Oh. My. God. I remember that. 1996, wasn’t it? Right after Richie started following the fake you.”

“You have an amazingly accurate memory, Highlander.”

“No, I don’t. I really don’t. But that particular occasion was…memorable.” Duncan covered his face with his hands for a moment, then sneaked a sideways look at Methos. “I thought you had lost your mind. And I still don’t know where you got that towel. All of mine are big enough to wrap around my waist twice. I know, I buy them that way on purpose.”

“Bravo, Highlander!” Methos applauded cheerfully. “As a matter of fact, I made a special trip to the corner store to find one with the appropriate dimensions…or lack of dimension, I should say. I had to make the experiment genuine, didn’t I?”

“Experiment?”

“Yes. Experiment, conducted as scientifically conducted as possible given the conditions. And a complete and total failure it was too…at least from Amanda’s point of view. She still owes me a rather nice 18th century necklace over that, come to think of it.” Methos answered. “But it did prove once and for all that you weren’t interested. The sight of my luscious muscular body, even dripping water from your shower and strategically camouflaged with nothing but a scrap of terry cloth, did nothing for you except to prompt a query as to whether or not I wanted to borrow a robe. When I sprawled on your couch and favored you with my best smoldering look…very purposefully letting some of the water from my hair drip down my neck onto my collarbones…all you did was toss me a kitchen towel and tell me to put it behind my head so I didn’t ruin the leather. So you see, I know what I’m talking about. You, Mr. Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, are straight.”

He said with such a sense of finality that Duncan felt his hackles rise. “You’re sure about that, are you,” he said gruffly. “Just because I didn’t want you leaving water spots on my couch.”

“Hey! I wiggled my toes at you, too. And let me tell you…no man with even a hint of same-sex leaning in him has ever resisted the Methosian Toe Wiggle. These feet have seduced emperors, kings…”

Duncan shuddered, the image of Methos dangling his bare feet in front of Julius Caesar suddenly all too clear in his mind. “Stop right there,” he said. “I don’t want to know.”

“No. You really don’t, do you.” For the first time since they'd gotten up from the grass Methos sounded sad. “And that, right there, is the main reason we aren’t lovers, MacLeod. Your lack of interest in my body we could have overcome. Bodies are bodies, after all. Give them enough pleasure and they quickly learn to adapt to new circumstances. But your lack of interest in *me*? In where I’ve been, what I’ve done, what I think?” Yes, there was no question about it…there was definite sadness in Methos’s voice, and a touch of bitterness, too. “No power on earth could correct that.”

“I’m interested in you!”

“Really. Do the words ‘blah, blah, blah’ mean anything to you?”

“I didn’t…” Duncan suddenly had a clear memory of that occasion, and a dozen other times when Duncan had cut Methos off in mid-remembrance with a “blah, blah” or words to that effect. He could now remember the brief flare of pain that had always shown in the old Immortal’s eyes, just before Methos had covered it with a quip or a sarcastic insult. “I just never knew when to trust you,” Duncan said in defeat. “Never knew when you were telling the truth or just telling a tale to have fun with me. I got impatient, that’s all. If that translated as disinterest, I’m sorry.” He looked over at Methos’s mask-like face. “I really am, Methos.”

“Yes, well.” Methos shoved his hands awkwardly into his pockets. “It’s not entirely your fault. I *do* play with you, Highlander. And sometimes…often…I am not strictly truthful about my past.” He sighed. “I suppose what I was really waiting for was for you to play with me back…show enough interest to jump through some of the hoops I set out for you. It’s an old habit of mine, I’m afraid. Self-protection. I don’t share much of myself with someone until I’m satisfied that they care enough to keep digging even if I throw in a few completely implausible stories or sarcastic insults. That they really want to know The Real Me in spite of all the barriers I set up.”

Duncan thought about it. Thought about those occasions when a “blah, blah” had resulted in those flashes of pain. Thought about the times when Methos would sit silently on his couch or across the chessboard with his hands folded, as if he was waiting for something. *Waiting? For me? Oh, no…* “You’ve been testing me almost every day since we met, then,” Duncan said, shocked that he’d missed something so terribly obvious and important. “And I failed you. I didn’t even know I was being tested, and I failed.”

“Oh, don’t get your knickers in a twist, MacLeod,” Methos said easily. “I didn’t tell you any of this to set off one of your famous Highland broods. No, you didn’t play with me the way I wanted you to…but that was largely my fault for failing to explain the rules of the game. Besides, eventually I came to the conclusion that you were doing us both a favor. The ‘real Methos’ is not the nicest person in the world, you see. And the true story of my past is filled with ugly patches, as you have since had cause to discover. Nobody needs to have all that dug through and dropped on them…not even me. It’s better for both of us that we keep things as they are.”

Methos’s footsteps quickened, as if he was eager to leave the past…and the conversation…behind. Once again, Duncan hurried to catch up with him. “My own past has its share of ugly patches, Methos.”

“Oh yes?” Methos said nastily. “Was there a spot of genocide in your youth that the Watchers failed to record, then?”

Duncan winced. “No,” he admitted. “But how many of your students have you killed? Or so badly prepared for the Game that when they died it was almost as bad as taking their heads yourself?”

“How many slaves have you owned?”

“How many of your teacher's heads have you taken?” Duncan countered, and then threw his arms up in the air. “For god’s sake, Methos, this isn’t a contest! All I asked was a simple question: why aren’t we lovers? You gave me your answers. And I can’t change my taste in music, and I can’t change the fact that I don’t have a long line of male lovers, emperors or otherwise, to throw in your face. Nor can I change the fact that six years ago I was so confused by the feelings I had for you that I told you to stop dripping water on my couch instead of ripping off your towel and ravishing you the way I apparently should have. And you’re right: playing any kind of game is a test of my patience, especially the ones where no one bothers to explain the rules. But I can tell you this.” He took a deep breath. “I am interested in you, Methos, and I want to have you in my life. I just plain want you, period. So could we finally end this stupid dance we’ve been doing all this time? Can you stop hiding and show me you? It doesn’t even have to be the ‘real’ you…it can be whichever mask you feel you have to wear at the moment. Just…show me something. Please?” 

Methos stared at him for the longest time. In desperation Duncan stepped closer. He hovered well within Methos’s personal space, expecting that at any minute Methos would shove him away. He didn’t, and as the moon came out from behind a cloud Duncan realized that this was the first time he’d ever been this close to the other man, ever been in a position to study his details so intimately. He looked down, noting the way the moonlight brought out the fine grain of Methos’s skin, and the beautifully defined dip in the curve of his upper lip that Duncan suddenly wanted to taste more than anything else in the world. Duncan bent his head slowly, painfully, giving Methos ample time to move away. He paused there, millimeters away, for what seemed like forever. Then Methos raised his arms, and a moment later Duncan felt two strong hands tangling in his hair. “Something then, Highlander,” Methos murmured. And their lips met.

The world tilted.

***

It wasn’t simply the fact that he was kissing a man. It wasn’t even the mind boggling fact that the man he happened to be kissing was Methos, the world’s oldest living Immortal and long-term inhabitant of some of Duncan’s most powerfully erotic dreams. The kiss itself made the world spin. At first Methos simply applied a gentle pressure…but there was a softness and warmth in that pressure that astounded Duncan, a feeling of rightness in the small movements Methos made to fit his body more closely into Duncan’s that truly made him feel as though he’d slipped off the edge of the earth. Tentatively, uncertainly, he opened his mouth…was unbelievably reassured to feel Methos’s lips part in response, inviting Duncan’s tongue inside. There was another world-shifting moment as Duncan let himself taste the smooth planes of Methos’s front teeth, then Methos’s tongue tangled wetly in his, and Duncan felt an explosion of sweetness and desire that set him reeling. He wrapped his arms around Methos’s body and did his best to hang on...

After what seemed an endless time, Methos gently pulled away, although he left his hands lingering on Duncan’s hips. “Well,” he said. “That was not at all what I was expecting from this evening.”

“Am I that bad a kisser, then?”

“No.” A soft shudder went through the old Immortal’s body. “God, no. Your mouth is…exquisite, Highlander.” The strong fingers reached up and traced Duncan’s lower lip, sending trills of pleasure through the kiss-sensitized skin and causing Duncan to open his mouth again, aching for the caress to delve inside. When Methos started to lower his hand Duncan made a sudden movement and trapped one of those fingers between his teeth, moaning softly as his tongue instantly went to the calloused fingertip and gave him his first real taste of Methos’s skin. Methos swayed. “Oh, god, don’t do that,” he murmured, but he didn’t pull away. “You’re making me want things I can’t possibly have. All over again.”

Duncan surrendered the finger but not the hand, nibbling his way down to the skin between thumb and forefinger which he gently nipped with his teeth. “Don’t you think you should ask me what you can and can’t have before you decide it’s out of reach?”

“Perhaps I should.” Methos took his hand away. “It wasn't so long ago that you would have drawn a sword if I so much as suggested doing what we just did. What’s changed?”

“You have to ask? You were the one who just told me,” Duncan answered. He spread his arms wide. “Methos, you were right. I am a man without foundation. I’m floating through space, nothing to tie me down…and that means that everything I thought I knew about myself no longer applies. The old rules, the old boundaries are gone.” Methos still looked uncertain. Duncan sighed. “Word it this way: the main reason I never asked for this before was because it didn't fit in with what I knew myself to be. Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod did not take men into his bed. Especially not a certain brilliant, cryptic, eternally confusing old man with unfathomable motivations and desires..."

A faint smile graced the old Immortal’s lips. "You forgot arrogant and bad tempered."

"...who was nonetheless incredibly beautiful and tempted me, body and soul, every moment we were together," Duncan finished. "I’ve always wanted you, Methos. I just could never figure out how to tell you that and still be the Duncan MacLeod I knew. But he’s been gone for a while now, so there’s no longer a reason to hold back.” He looked the other man directly in the eyes. “Is there?”

There was a moment of intense cogitation on Methos's part, during which Duncan was sure the old Immortal was going to come up with another reason to say no, to end this here and now. But then Methos returned his gaze, and Duncan knew the decision had been made. “No,” the Eldest said softly, and there was a passionate intensity in his gaze that made Duncan shiver. “There doesn’t seem to be. And if there is, I don’t particularly want to know.” He cleared his throat. "Where shall we go then, Highlander? Your place?"

Duncan felt a relief so strong his knees almost went weak...and then he thought about his apartment. His luxurious, expensive, exquisitely furnished and completely lifeless apartment. The thought of taking Methos back into that prison was deeply abhorrent. Not when he’d only just escaped. “No. I can't...I don’t want to go back there.”

“No,” Methos agreed, and Duncan had to wonder if the place had been filthier than he thought. Or maybe Methos had seen beyond the clutter to read the unhappiness Duncan had experienced there. Either way, Duncan was relieved that he didn’t have to explain. “Unfortunately, I don’t have an alternative to offer," Methos said regretfully. "I was planning to spend the night with Joe, but somehow I doubt he’d appreciate being woken up by two Immortals intent on having their first time on his living room couch. I suppose we could always go to a hotel...”

And the thought of taking this to a hotel, a place of impersonal, clean sterility no matter how luxurious the furnishings, was even more abhorrent than returning to his apartment. Duncan cleared his throat. “Is there something wrong with right here?”

“Planning on putting a few more grass stains on my coat, Highlander?”

“Yes. Exactly.” Duncan said. He gestured at abandoned park, at the darkness that seemed so safe and welcoming. “I just don’t want to go back to the real world right now, Methos. I know that doesn’t make sense…”

“It makes perfect sense,” Methos said, and Duncan was floored by the realization that yes, to Methos, it really did. He felt his throat close up with the sweet feeling of being so easily understood. “Come with me.”

Just as he had before, Methos took Duncan by the hand, leading him across the park to a grassy patch just at the park’s northern edge, surrounded by great spreading willows on three sides and touched by the shadow of the swing sets on the fourth. Duncan helped him slide the coat from his shoulders, and Methos carefully spread the garment on the ground before settling his long body down along one edge, hand lifted in invitation. Duncan studied him for a moment, thinking, wondering, then he dropped his own coat in a heap to the ground and joined Methos on the cashmere. Instantly Methos was leaning over him, body blotting out the stars. Duncan expected to be kissed, but the old Immortal merely ran a gentle hand across his face. There was so much wonder and disbelief in the touch that Duncan couldn’t help but think back to what Methos had said about Duncan making him want things he couldn't possibly have--all over again. “You’ve wanted this for a while,” Duncan said.

“Yes,” Methos answered simply, and went back to caressing Duncan’s face, the strong fingers gliding over the Duncan’s forehead and cheeks with so much attention that Duncan suspected Methos was memorizing him, locking away the details of his face in his mind forever. Methos murmured something as he did, something that was clearly words but no words that Duncan knew, the rich modulation of the ancient voice broken into indecipherable syllables. It was a beautiful sound, and Duncan reached up to touch the lips that had shaped it, lingering over the softness he had never really expected to know with his own fingers. “What was that?” he asked. “I don’t recognize the language.”

“No. You wouldn’t.” 

“What was it?” 

“It was a line from a verse I once knew. Part love poem, part prayer.”

“Can you translate it for me?”

“I can try. Some of the concepts really don’t transfer into modern English, but if I had to translate, it would go something like this.” Methos lifted his eyes to the stars and recited:

_“You know I love you; I always will_  
My mind's made up by the way that I feel.  
There's no beginning, there will be no end  
For on my love, you can depend...” 

Duncan frowned. “Methos. That sounds a hell of a lot like the Troggs to me.”

“Didn’t I ever mention that I knew Reg Presley? It was during the early sixties, shortly before my time with the Rolling Stones. Allegedly, I was one of his inspirations for 'Wild Thing', as well.”

Duncan studied the carefully composed poker face above him. *Masks,* he thought. *I did say I’d let him keep whichever ones he needed.* “You never did,” he said. “I’d love for you to tell me the story.”

Methos smiled. It was, quite possibly, the most honest smile Duncan had ever seen him wear. “Another time,” he said. “But you’re right, it’s quite possible I may have made a mistake with my translation. Let me try again.” He cleared his throat and began:

_“Touching you is a terror_  
The terror of the seed as it is shattered by the sprout, the terror of the sacrifice as it is led before the altar  
You are Life, and I cannot remain unburned.  
You are my every hunger.  
An, great lady, guide my hands  
Lead me safely through this night  
Let the pleasure of your fire surge through my beloved’s skin  
And lead us, burning, into morning…” 

Methos trailed off, suddenly shy. “You have to understand, for my people, the word for ‘life’ and the word for ‘fire’ were synonyms,” he said in a voice that strove for normalcy, tried hard to be the voice Duncan had heard during a thousand casual chess-game lectures. “Just living and breathing every day was seen as a kind of burning. Every new beginning was also a death, every death a beginning; we weren’t too big on the concept of permanence. Couldn’t be, when life was so uncertain.” Methos realized that Duncan was staring at him, and awkwardly pulled his shoulders up towards his ears in an uncertain gesture of self-protection. “What’s wrong?”

“Your people,” Duncan said. “You’ve never spoken of them to me before. I was under the impression that you didn’t remember anything about your life before you took your first head.”

“All I said was that I didn’t remember how long I had lived,” Methos corrected gently. “Which is true. We didn’t have calendars, didn’t keep track of time at all beyond a rough anticipation of the changing of the seasons. We were simply The People, ever changing, going to continue dying and being reborn forever.” He looked sadly up at the sky. “The first Immortal I ever killed was a priest from a much more advanced culture. He knew about time keeping, knew that one year really was different from the one before it, knew that some things go away and never come back. Once I’d absorbed his Quickening, I knew it too.” A sigh. “I’ve often thought it was ironic that it was my Immortality that really introduced me to the concept of linear time. That gave me the knowledge of lasting death...”

Duncan looked up in wonder, awed to the soul by this glimpse into Methos’s past. He was so overwhelmed that he had no idea what to say…but he had to say *something*, had to thank Methos for this gift of letting him see into his earliest remembrance. “Help me burn,” he said. “Please.” And Methos gave him one final hungry, incredulous look before lowering his head and proceeding to do exactly as Duncan asked.

Fire. Methos’s hands felt like fire as they slipped beneath Duncan’s sweater, and his mouth was molten lava as he nudged the soft wool up out of the way and fastened onto Duncan’s stomach, sucking in the soft skin and licking trails over Duncan’s abdomen that made him shiver. Methos moved with so much surety that Duncan, quaking under the unexpected onslaught of desire, couldn’t help but remember Methos’s earlier words: bodies are bodies, after all, give them enough pleasure and they quickly adapt to new circumstances. His own body certainly didn't seem to care that this was man and four hundred years of sexual self image were rapidly being eradicated; Duncan’s toes curled inside his boots, and he quickly found himself panting aloud. His hands clenched over Methos's shoulders and urged him upward, needing to feel that wonderful mouth on his again while the talented hands continued to brand him. Methos made a wordless sound and obliged, covering Duncan's lips as he took Duncan's hands and guided them to his back, urging Duncan to do some branding of his own. The feel of strong masculine shoulders tapering down to a trim masculine waist coupled with the sensation of what could only be Methos' arousal poking into his hip hit Duncan like a ton of bricks, and he suddenly realized that he was very, very out of his league. “Methos,” he panted, and there was both desperation and fear in the sound.

“Shh," Methos whispered. "I’ve got you. It’s all right.”

“It feels…”

“I know. For me as well.” With surprising grace, Methos rolled them so they were lying face to face on their sides. He laced his fingers through Duncan's, sliding one set of their now–entwined hands beneath Duncan’s sweater to touch the skin over his heart. The other pair he guided to his groin, gently closing Duncan’s fingers around the sizeable bulge evident beneath the fabric. It was difficult to say which touch made Duncan shudder more. “Feel what you do to me, Highlander. What you’ve always done.”

Duncan felt. His fingers seemed to take on a mind of their own as they traced the shape of Methos’s cock, feeling the hardness the heavy wool slacks covered, guessing at the heat. “Always?” he asked, then shook his head; the question was irrelevant. He already knew the answer. “Can I do more?"

"When you're ready to. Kiss me again."

Their lips met, and Methos freed Duncan's hands, rolling docilely onto his back in order to allow Duncan the lead. Duncan looked down at the beautiful body, tense now with undisguisable desire despite the air of patient waiting. He wanted to strip him naked, wanted to see that entire lovely pale skin shining in the moonlight. But the night was too cold and the place too public, so Duncan settled for what Methos had done. He slid his hands under the Eldest's clothes, feeling in an irrational kind of way like he was stealing the touches away from...from what? The chilly night air, the culture, his own formerly misguided self? All three, and the knowledge that he could have this now was very sweet. He placed both his palms flat against Methos’s strong smooth stomach, slid them up to feel the hard sharpness of Methos’s lower ribs, then moved again to trace the corded muscles of his sides and back. So much strength there, so much power. Duncan felt. Duncan wanted. Down now to the waistband of Methos’s trousers, and, hardly able to believe that he was really doing this, Duncan undid the fly with shaking fingers, finally letting the length of Methos’s hardness fill his fist unimpeded. Methos made no sound, but his hips flexed forward, and his eyes glittered so brightly that they almost outshone the stars. Duncan let his exploring fingers skate up to the silken length to Methos’s crown, feeling the throbbing of the vein just below the head, drawing his calluses through the liquid slickness of Methos’s pre-come. *Touching you is a terror.* “Methos?”

“So good, Highlander,” Methos said, his voice a liquid caress in the dark. “So damn good. I could come just like this, just from having you hold me in your hand. You wouldn’t even have to move. Just knowing it was you would be enough.” Duncan moaned softly, the thought of feeling a man—this man—spilling over his fingers filling his groin with sweet cramping heat. He started to stroke, to perform the familiar movements he’d used on himself for nearly four hundred years, but Methos stopped him. “No. Stop.”

“Stop?”

“Just for now. I promised I would make you burn.” Methos gently detangled Duncan’s hand and laid it against the softness of the cashmere coat, pausing only to give Duncan’s sticky fingers a quick kiss. He started working on Duncan’s jeans, removing Duncan’s belt with deliberate slowness. Duncan groaned and bucked his hips forward, unable to stay still; his hips caught Methos's hand between Methos’s hardness and his own button fly. He ground against it, overwhelmed by the pleasure of even this inadequate touch, and Methos closed his eyes as his own arousal overtook him. “Oh, yes,” he breathed. “Let me make you burn.” His fingers flew down Duncan’s fly, undoing buttons with supernatural speed— Duncan hissed as his erection was bared to the cold night air, chilliness surrounding him. Then Methos pulled Duncan on top of him, positioning his groin between his thighs, and suddenly all Duncan could feel was heat.

Heat and pressure and incredible rhythm as Methos aligned their cocks and Duncan began to rub against him, small frantic movements that should not have felt anywhere near as good as they did. Methos found his lips, kissing him with a savagery that made it all right for Duncan to give into his desperately growing greed. He thrust forward, hard...

Felt Methos's entire body stiffen in surprise as a strangled cry left his lips and wet heat spurted between them....

Felt his own climax hovering, blindingly near and yet impossibly far away, as Methos collapsed into bonelessness beneath him and Duncan felt the utterly alien sensation of aftershocks pulsing softly in the other man's cock. Once again, Duncan was overwhelmed by that horrible sensation of dizziness he'd had on the swing. He felt like he was falling backward into dark space, lost in a universe that was nothing but empty void....

Felt a strong hand wrap around him, heard three whispered words. "Burn for me..."

And suddenly Duncan was swinging forward, feeling the exhilarating sensation of flight. He thrust a final time, surrendering, coming with everything he had.

He burned.

***

He awoke early, just as the sky was beginning to change from the dark velvet blue of pre-dawn to slowly lightening gray of the brand new day. Methos was lying beside him, knees curled into his chest as he huddled under the thin protection of Duncan’s coat. An expression of incredible peace was on his face. Duncan watched him for several minutes, watching his chest rise and fall, then carefully arranged his coat more securely over the Old One’s sleeping frame before getting up and going to the swings. He hopped up and thrashed for a long moment, unable to get purchase. Then he got down and jumped back into the seat with enough backward force to start himself swinging, and just as the sun peaked over the world’s edge and the sky colored orange and yellow and red he worked up enough momentum to really begin to fly. 

He swung and swung, while the world tilted underneath him and the horizon burned under his feet.

The End

11/3/06

**Author's Note:**

> Methos's first quotation is from one of the most beautiful love songs of the 1960's, at least IMHO: "Love is All Around" by The Troggs. The second quotation is from an original love poem written by me.


End file.
